What Once Was Lost
by NotMarge
Summary: Mark Linney lost his son four years ago. Elizabeth Keen has brought him back. And now life can begin anew for a father and and his son. Season 3, Episode 'Lady Ambrosia'.


I do not own The Blacklist.

The one time I watch it. Jeez.

What Once Was Lost

* * *

What followed directly thereafter were some of the best days of his entire life.

His son, wrongfully presumed dead these four long years, was home.

The boy was still a level three autistic.

He was still mute.

He still did not make eye contact.

But he was Mark Linney's son.

And he was home.

Mark Liney woke up every morning now with peace and happiness filling his entire body.

Peace and happiness.

And not crushing grief and depression.

He awoke every morning grateful to God in Heaven that he hadn't driven himself into a pole or off a bridge during those four years when he had so badly wanted to.

But crawled on, day after day, not knowing quite why.

Now he knew.

He had survived each terrible, miserable day from the 'accidental' drowning his desperate wife had formulated without his knowledge.

The wife that was now also inexplicably missing and gone.

He had survived.

To this.

To be reunited with his son.

Alive.

And healthy.

And safe.

Back where he should be.

With his father.

Mark Liney would seek therapy for the boy.

Occupational therapy. Life skills.

Anything he needed. Anything that would help.

He would.

In a month or two.

But for now, Mark Liney let everything go.

Everything that wasn't Ethan.

Four years ago, Ethan's favorite breakfast was plain silver dollar pancakes and orange juice.

On a Mickey Mouse plate.

In a Goofy cup.

Every morning, Mark Liney cooked up a fresh batch of Hungry Jack plain pancakes.

Poured pulp-free Trop50 orange juice into Goofy.

And gently woke his son at seven o'clock.

The boy ate without comment, tearing the pancakes into even smaller pieces with his hands.

Eating slowly, mechanically. Never looking up at his father.

Then allowed himself to be guided through his morning freshening routine.

Smooth, easy movements. Quiet murmurs.

It took time, patience.

Mark didn't care.

It was his son.

Afterward, the boy would be in need of some destimulation time.

A pen. A toy. The carpet fibers.

His pillowcase.

Whatever caught the full intensity of his tunnel vision-like focus.

And Mark would go about his own morning.

He always showered before making breakfast so that was taken care of.

So he would pay bills. Clean a bathroom if necessary. Wash clothes.

Four years ago, Ethan's autistic nerves would not have tolerated a housekeeper.

Mark didn't mind.

A house that was picked up daily only required light cleaning.

His mother had taught him that. He had never really cared.

Until Ethan.

The house wasn't pristine.

Baseboards still didn't interest him.

But he did clean.

Order and neatness and sameness seemed to soothe Ethan.

So Mark did it.

And found inadvertently that it made daily life easier to manage.

He might even chat online with friends or call his mother and update her on Ethan's progress.

Which basically involved maintaining the status quo.

At eleven o'clock, Mark would quietly usher Ethan out into the warm sunshine.

Sit in a chair. Birdwatching. Finding shapes in the clouds.

While the boy sat in the grass, pulling blades. Or simply combing them with his fingers.

And Mark Liney would watch his son.

Hoping that some part of Ethan enjoyed the light breezes, the sun warming his back.

At noon, they would go inside for lunch.

Four years ago, Ethan's favorite lunch had been chicken nuggets, sweet potato fries, and a roll.

On a Optimus Prime plate.

And Bumblebee cup.

Every midday, Mark Liney would bring his son in from the sunshine.

And the boy would eat.

Peeling all the breading from the chicken nuggets to pile on the corner of Donald Duck.

Eat the chicken nuggets.

Then the breading by itself.

Without comment.

And without looking up.

And Mark Liney would eat.

And watch his son.

Then he would guide him through a new, shorter set of toiletry steps.

Hand washing. A second tooth brushing.

Smoothing movements.

Quiet mutterings.

It took time and patience.

And Mark Liney didn't mind.

Because it was his son.

Then they would sit and watch a movie together.

Something the boy liked.

Disney musicals caused him to put his fingers in his ears and rock.

Explosive movies made him sit under the table.

For some reason however, he had been quietly soothed and entranced by Christopher Guest mockumentries.

Years ago, Mark Liney had been indulging in yet another viewing of 'Best in Show' when he had noticed his much smaller son.

Perched on the edge of the couch, eyes unwaveringly focused on the unassuming dramatics of the canine lovers' series of unfortunate events surrounding the fictional Plymouth Dog Show.

Not flinching. Not turning away. Not rocking.

Not even sticking his fingers in his ears at Parker Posey's over-the-top theatrics . . .

". . .get her Busy Bee, she's gonna freak out!"

. . . over the lost lab's black and yellow chewtoy.

They rotated movies now.

'Best in Show'.

'Mighty Wind'.

'This is Spinal Tap'.

'Waiting for Guffman.'

'Mascots'.

Even 'For Your Consideration', arguably Mark's least favorite.

One a day. Sitting side by side.

With his son.

His lost boy returned to him.

It was unconventional, the selection of cinema for a boy Ethan's age.

But Mark didn't care.

Everything about Mark and Ethan was unconventional.

After the movie, Ethan would be ready for another destimulation time.

He would lay quietly on his bed.

Always facing the blank wall.

Always with the blanket pulled to just below his shoulder.

He would lay quietly for half an hour.

Before getting up and looking out the window, silent and introspective.

Mark would usher him out for a quiet walk down to the neighborhood duck pond if the weather was fair.

Into the den for puzzle time if it was not.

Puzzle time.

Almost as enjoyable as Christopher Guest in Mark's opinion.

They were working on a Robert Kincade currently.

Some quiet, peaceful scene that took hours and hours, weeks and weeks to complete.

But Mark didn't mind.

It was his son. And his son liked the quiet challenge of a puzzle.

Four years ago, Ethan had liked pork chops for supper.

On a Thor plate.

V-8 Strawberry Banana Splash in a Loki cup.

So Mark cooked for his son.

Pork chops, for two. Rolls. Vegetable sticks.

Another destimulation session alone in his room, followed by one last slow, methodical, soothing hygiene session.

This time twice as long to include a bath and toweling drying session as well.

Most of it the boy could do himself, just as his several restroom visits proved.

But Mark stayed close enough by to redirect, to reassure.

Anything the boy needed.

His Ethan.

His son.

One day, with therapy, perhaps the boy would become more independent.

But for now, all Mark Linney wanted was for him to be happy. Content. Satisfied. Well cared for.

Loved.

Ethan.

Returned to him.

Returned after four long years.

Returned much the same as when he had been taken.

Withdrawn. Mute. Alive.

His son.

Taller now.

Older.

But still his son.

As the boy went to sleep each night and his father watched over him, Mark Linney prayed.

He was not a particularly religious man.

But he did believe.

How could he not, after his thought dead son had miraculously returned to him alive and well after four long years?

So each and every night as Ethan's quiet Disney lullaby music played and the boy's breathing slowed further, evened further, his father prayed.

A simple prayer.

A heartfelt prayer.

A prayer from the very center of his soul, the deepest part of his heart.

With every shred of his being, every fiber of his living self.

He prayed.

Earnestly. Sincerely.

Completely.

 _Thank you._

 _Thank you, God._

 _Thank you for returning my son to me._

* * *

 **Talk about ripping your heart out with a spoon! When the autistic kid walked so slow to his dad and leaned his head against him, I nearly died.**

 **I had to go a hug each of my three boys after that episode concluded!**

 **Well, anyway.**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


End file.
